


Drawn to the Blood

by lotsofbigangrybees



Series: All For Myself [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Drug Use, Light Angst, M/M, just so theres no confusion, preston is in chapter 2, the deacon/m!ss is past !!!, this is mostly plot sorry gamers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26294974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotsofbigangrybees/pseuds/lotsofbigangrybees
Summary: “You know, there was a time when I was on a first name basis with chems. It’s better to kiss them goodbye. Trust me, boss.” The dingy hotel room was thick with dust, and Antonio’s head pounded as he looked around.“How did you find me?”
Relationships: Deacon/Male Sole Survivor, Preston Garvey/Sole Survivor
Series: All For Myself [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1853056
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Drawn to the Blood

Another hit. A sharp sting followed by the sluggish warmth of oblivion. Heavy arms, disconnected. Eyelids drooping, fluttering. A lazy smile, directed at nothing. Time drifted by, indicated only by pools of light waxing and waning. A distant wheezing cough. Eyes snapping open. Dark wood, creaking floorboards. Green hat. Red coat. Blue suit. White fence. Fire. Hat. Sunglasses. Secrets. A deep, shuddering gasp of cold, dusty air. Scrabbling, clawing,  _ my own eyes staring back _ . 

Another hit. The sluggish warmth of oblivion. Heavy. Drifting away. 

_ You can’t keep him like this, Hancock.  _

Green hat. Red coat. Voices. 

_ He came to me, who am I to deny him a little break?  _

A break. Lie down, lazy smile. 

_ A break? He’s coming with us, back to Sanctuary.  _

Same red coat. New red coat. Cold hand, rubbery.  _ Don’t touch me _ . 

_ See, Nicky? You and your reporter friend aren’t needed. He’s fine. I won’t get him hooked or anything, promise. _

Reporter. Newspaper. New job. Fresh start. Sanctuary. Lying. New shirt, new house. Same lie. Soft smile, understanding. Sell houses to live in your own house. Phone calls, thanks for your service. Stay quiet, stay hidden. Sunglasses. Sunset. New lie. Open your eyes. Sunglasses.

_ I’ll take it from here, Mr Mayor.  _ Keep the light on. It’s too dark.  _ Don’t look at me.  _

_ He’s not going anywhere unless he wants to.  _ Blue eyes. Hat. Not green. No hat.  _ Where’s hat? Hat was nice.  _ Warm hands, white shirt.  _ Sunglasses.  _ Smile. Frown. Moving. Where to? Upright, doesn’t look right. 

_ I’m gonna need help, Mac.  _ Green hat. Wrong hat. More hands. Standing. Falling. Lifting. Dark wood, floorboards creaking. No more red coat. Going down, coming up. Burning. 

_ M’sorry.  _

_ It’s alright.  _ Bright lights, street lights. Good job on the deal, son. Good job on the wife, son. Good job on the kid, son.  _ Son _ . More stairs. Jingle, jangle.  _ Jingle _ . 

_ I’ll check back in the morning, boss.  _ No more green hat.  _ Son.  _ Underground. Not buried. 

_ She’s still there.  _

_ Drink up, Whisper.  _ Cold, fresh. Sliding down, sweet.  _ Tired.  _

_ Get some rest, I’ll keep watch.  _ No. Slipping away, into the darkness. Didn’t see the mines. Was supposed to be keeping watch, grab the files and go. No traps. But there were. Partner. 

_ You’ll go away.  _

_ I won’t.  _ Reaching forward, white shirt. Warm body.  _ Where’s hat?  _ Sunglasses didn’t care. Not like hat. Warm body. 

_ Jesus, you need to get your shit together before we go back to Sanctuary.  _ Sanctuary. Hills. Not there anymore.  _ Hat was there.  _ Warm hands. Gently stroking through hair. Sleep.




“What do you think he’ll be when he grows up?” Nora laughed in response, kneeling next to Shaun’s crib. 

“It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it, Ant?” She stood, stretching slowly, rolling her shoulders. “I don’t think it really matters, in the end. So long as he does the best he can with what we give him.” 

“I guess so.” Antonio placed an arm around her shoulders, and they watched Shaun sleep, a small body swaddled in blankets, unaware. Nora sighed and wrapped an arm around his waist, head resting on his shoulder. “If we were normal, we’d kiss now.” Another laugh. 

“Yeah we tried that, remember? Middle school was a dark time.” 

“Not to mention the wedding.” 

“Hey, it was enough to keep ‘em fooled!” A comfortable lie. A comfortable life. 




Antonio woke with a start, squeezing the hand in his own a little too hard.  _ Preston?  _ Definitely not. 

“Deacon?” The hand retreated, and he was met with tired, blue eyes, and a relieved smile. 

“You know, there was a time when I was on a first name basis with chems. It’s better to kiss them goodbye. Trust me, boss.” The dingy hotel room was thick with dust, and Antonio’s head pounded as he looked around. 

“How did you find me?” 

“MacCready. He’d heard that you’d been seen near Quincy with Hancock. You wouldn’t go with him, or Piper, or Nick. He came up to Mercer and found me.” 

“What about Preston?” Deacon pursed his lips. 

“He doesn’t know you’re back.” He said it quietly, shifting uncomfortably in the chair next to the bed. Antonio started, opening his mouth to speak, but Deacon pushed on. “Shit, Antonio.  _ I  _ didn’t know you were back. Hancock found you about to go after some Gunners, drunk as hell with a shotgun. Mac only came here on a whim, and Diamond City was the closest place with people he knew you trusted, but not enough to get off your ass.” _ Mac?  _ Antonio filed away the nickname, running his hands over his face. A scraggly beard was growing across his face, something he hadn’t let happen since last time he went off the rails, pre-war. He couldn’t have been back from the Institute long- shit. 

Shaun. His arm itched, and his head swam. Thoughts began piling up, too quickly to be sorted into sanity. The cloud of blissful ignorance granted by a cocktail of Med-X and alcohol had been blown away, and now a spotlight shone on what he was trying to forget. 

“Hey, we’ll get you back to Sanctuary, I promise. We just can’t let the Minutemen see their general like this; would totally destroy their hero worship of you.” Deacon was standing, adjusting the pompadour wig that sat on his head. “Then we’re gonna have to unpack what happened while you were gone, Whisper.” 

Antonio. Boss. Whisper. Different names for different conversations. Antonio only had the one for Deacon. The tender skin inside his elbow tingled, scratched, itched. He sat up and watched the room spin, his stomach clenching as his eyes tried to adjust to movement. Deacon’s hand found his shoulder, but it was too warm, too close. White shirt. Too clean. Brown eyes. His eyes. Nora’s smile. Going down, coming up. 

This time he was aware of the bile climbing up his throat, throwing his shoulders over the side of the bed as his stomach expelled what little was in there. He wiped his mouth and cringed as he saw Deacon wrinkling his nose. 

“I’ll go see if Clair has a bucket, and get you something to eat. Stay put, Ant.” The nickname rolled off Deacon’s tongue, but it stood out. “-Tonio, which is your name.” He left the room, shutting the door gently. The dark room seemed to stare back at him, closing in without Deacon there to keep the silence at bay. Antonio scanned his surroundings as best he could, hoping it would tell him something. The slats of plywood covering the window didn’t offer any light, so it was safe to say it was long past sundown, yet not late enough that the drunkards had been kicked from the Third Rail, free to wreak inebriated havoc on the streets. His PipBoy sat on the bedside table, next to an inhaler of Addictol, a can of water, and a dirty mirror. 

Addictol didn’t agree with him. It had been a last resort before the bombs, a quick fix that got rid of the physical pain, but left addicts with the sober reality of whatever was going on psychologically. Oftentimes it made things worse.  _ There’s no cure-all for the human condition, Ant.  _ Nora’s voice echoed in his brain, bouncing and rattling in his skull. Thankfully, the inhaler looked untouched. He drank the water slowly, a small sip at a time, until the churning of his stomach begged him to stop.

The mirror begged his attention next, and curiosity got the better of him. When Antonio had left the Institute it had been in fresh clothes, skin scrubbed clean of Wasteland build up, hair brushed neatly back into the ponytail he’d cultivated since leaving Vault 111. The man staring back at him now was someone he’d intended on leaving behind. A scraggly beard of uneven stubble had grown across his face, doing its part to cover sunken cheeks. Dark circles underneath bloodshot eyes made him look more at home in Goodneighbor than ever before, and the hair that brushed his shoulders not long ago was now shaved down, almost as uneven as the beard. He sat the mirror back down on the table, and swallowed thickly. Nora would have been upset. 

“I look like shit.” He murmured out loud, wincing as his own voice, too loud, echoed back, raspy. 

Antonio had already decided that Deacon wouldn’t be returning. It wasn’t the spy’s style. Even after Zimonja. Especially after Zimonja. The puddle of bile would just have to sit there until Antonio was ready to deal with it himself, hopefully before he added to it. 

So naturally, when the door creaked open, and a bucket was placed gently next to his bed, along with a damp cloth, Antonio jumped. 

“Easy there, it’s just me, boss.” Deacon stage whispered, a small smile playing upon his lips. 

“Didn’t think you’d be back.” Antonio croaked, watching as Deacon stood with a frown.

“Why wouldn’t I be? Can’t go leaving hungover Railroad agents in hotel rooms, always ends bad.” 

“Forgive me if I’m used to you leaving hungover  _ me  _ in hotel rooms, or rather, safehouses.” It had come out a lot more accusatory than he’d intended, and he winced as Deacon pursed his lips, setting the damp cloth on the side of the bucket. 

“That’s different. You know I wouldn’t leave if you were hurting, boss.”  _ Is it different?  _ And something in the combination of withdrawal and exhaustion caused a spark of frustration in Antonio’s stomach. 

“But you’d leave after making a promise? Or have I just never been hungover enough for you to stay before?” The words had venom, and no place in the context of this conversation, but Antonio couldn’t stop remembering Deacon’s blue eyes, the way he’d looked tangled in bedsheets, heart seemingly laid bare.  _ I could try _ , he’d said. Lying through his teeth, lying through blue eyes, like he lied through sunglasses and shitty black wigs.

“What are you- this isn’t the time for that conversation, hell, we’ve already had it, pal. If you don’t want my help getting back to Sanctuary and Minuteboy, then that’s fine by me. I don’t have to deal with your withdrawal pains.” Antonio went to open his mouth, but shut it the second Deacon’s hands rose to remove his sunglasses. “I know you hate it when I lie, and you know my relationship with the truth rubs some people, even you, the wrong way. But believe this one thing, boss: I’m in your corner. Always have been. Not everyone can say that.” In one fluid motion, the sunglasses were back in place, and Deacon was turning to leave. 

“Deek, I-” 

“You can clean up your own vomit, boss.” And he was gone. 

Antonio drank the rest of the water, ignoring his stomach gurgling. Things were easier with Preston. The Minuteman wore his heart on his sleeve, and didn’t feed into his bullshit. Kind of like Nora. The Addictol sat in the corner of his vision, begging for him to look at it head on. He ignored it and focused on his hands, distracting from the crawling beneath his skin, counting on his fingers until his eyelids grew heavy. 




“Ant! Jesus Christ, wake up!” He woke up covered in sweat, chest heaving, sheets on the ground. The explosions echoed in his head, mines detonating, blasting him back, blasting the others to- 

“Look at me, Ant. It’s alright.” Nora’s hands were steady as she took his, stopping his nails from digging into his palms. Antonio blinked, and the fire was gone, replaced by their dark bedroom. A lamp clicked on, and he took his hands back, counting down from ten, using his fingers. 

“I need a drink.” That would help. Slow things down, close his eyes for him. 

“You don’t do that anymore, remember?” Nora was looking at him, expression guarded. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, fingers tugging gently on his hair.  _ I don’t do that anymore,  _ he thought, and reached a hand down, over the side of the bed, to pick up the blankets pooled there. On the bedside table, the empty canister of Addictol laughed at him. 




This time, Antonio woke alone. There was light pouring through the slats this time, and on the rickety old table sat a pack of gumdrops, a new can of water, and a container of what smelled like radstag stew. The pounding in his head hadn’t dissipated, and neither had the crawling sensation beneath his skin. The sheets beneath him were soaked in sweat, and his skin felt sticky. The scent of vomit still lingered, and he glanced to the floor, where the puddle of bile was drying into the floorboards. Nausea climbed up his throat, but he swallowed it down, focusing instead on the smell of stew. 

He drew himself up into a sitting position, focusing on a fixed space on the wall as his head swam. A spoon sat next to the container, alongside a note. All it had written was a railsign, a plus inside a square. Hopefully that meant it wasn’t poisoned. His hands shook as he tried a small spoonful, and he shuddered as he swallowed it down, flavors too rich, too much. It stayed down though, even if he had to clamp his hand over his mouth to keep it there. 

The next couple of days consisted of sleeping, sweating, eating in small bites, and puzzling over what to do next. Antonio had to get back to Sanctuary, that was for sure. It was obvious that Deacon was still hanging around Goodneighbor, he’d seen him in his drifter outfit one time he’d managed it down the stairs, not to mention the fresh food and water that appeared each morning. Even though the note only ever had the same railsign on it, Antonio was confident when he assumed it wasn’t Glory sneaking out to see him. The clear thing to do was apologise, write a note back and hope it was read. So on shaky legs, he ventured down to reception, cringing at Clair’s sympathetic smile. 

“Mornin’ Clair, you wouldn’t happen to have a spare pencil around would you?” His voice was significantly less croaky than it had been, and he found himself able to focus on her face, no longer seeing double. 

“Sure thing, just make sure to bring it back in one piece.” She slid a tiny stub of a pencil over to him, and he accepted it with a warm smile, steeling himself for the journey back up the stairs. There was an easy way to get his strength back. Cleanse his body of the poison he’d begged Hancock for. He’d been off the Med-X long enough to get some of his faculties back, he wouldn’t be going cold turkey like last time, wouldn’t be forced through all the stages of recovery in an hour like last time. 

It was a slow ascent, and he clung to the wall like a lifeline, legs burning. If he wanted to make it back to Sanctuary, back to Preston, any time soon, he’d need a helping hand. 

God, he missed Preston. A warm smile, the smell of leather, and a soft voice that eased his worries away. Antonio didn’t deserve him. Not like this at least. But he wanted to become someone deserving of Preston’s affection. Like he’d wanted to become someone deserving of Nora’s friendship. Not like he’d let Deacon drag the worst out of him, and vice versa. 

Back in his room, Antonio took the cloth Deacon had left behind, and using some of the leftover water he scrubbed away at the dried vomit, and stripped the bed of its sheets, leaving the bare mattress. He sank down, back against the bed frame, and swallowed as the small act of exertion caught up with him. Reaching a hand up, he felt around the top of the table for the inhaler. The cool metal brushed his fingertips, and he closed his hand around it, drawing it down, close to his chest. 

He thought for a moment, before placing it down in favor of the morning’s note. He turned it over, and pressed the pencil against his chin in thought. He wasn’t good with the written word, never had been. Words for him were passwords. The right sequence at a terminal, the right whisper into someone’s ear. But he couldn’t turn that on Deacon, he’d see through it immediately. So Antonio kept it short, and simple. 

_ Addictol down.  _

_ Heading for the hills tomorrow.  _

He was sure Deacon would appreciate the covert nature of it all. He picked up the inhaler, and sat on the bed, taking deep breaths.  _ I need to be better.  _ The acrid tang of chemicals filled his mouth, and he shuddered as he breathed it down. He picked up the heaviest of the sheets from the floor, and swaddled himself, aiming to be asleep for the worst of it. 




“Don’t leave like that ever again, Ant.” Deacon’s hands were warm against his skin, skimming beneath his shirt. HQ was mostly empty, and no one was looking in the dark corners of the makeshift shooting range. Antonio huffed a laugh, rocking against the thigh between his legs. “Something funny, boss?” He placed a kiss on Deacon’s jaw, nipping lightly. 

“Seems like it’s all good for you to leave, but I can’t do the same.” Deacon’s hands froze, tilting his head so their eyes met, even beneath the sunglasses. 

“I didn’t go wandering into the Glowing Sea though, did I?” 

“You know what I mean, Deek.” He murmured against Deacon’s neck. They could talk about this later. For the moment, he would ignore the pang in his chest that he felt whenever he remembered the cold mattress at Outpost Zimonja. 




This time when he vomited, he managed to get it in the bucket. It was also considerably more solid, and at this point he’d take anything over dry retching. 

“You sure you’re ready to get back on the road?” Antonio glanced up at the voice, grimacing as he wiped his mouth. Deacon was dressed in road leathers, sunglasses in place and a cap on his head, standing by the door. The morning light was shrouding him in a glow that was entirely too angelic. 

“Don’t have much choice, can’t stay holed up in here any more.” He stood, and shambled over to his pack, rummaging through it for something that wasn’t sweat stained and reeking of chems and vomit. The post-Addictol clarity made everything seem too bright, and though he didn’t crave anything, he had to push down thoughts of strung out bliss. 

“Sure can’t, this little holiday is coming out of your pay, boss.” Deacon grabbed Antonio’s pack, and slung it over his shoulder. 

“What a gentleman.” Deacon shrugged, and held open the door. 

“What can I say, I aims to please.” 

The Commonwealth hadn’t changed in the weeks Antonio had spent in the Institute, nor the time he’d lost in Goodneighbor. Ferals still roamed, staggering loudly through ruined streets, caravans still regarded everyone with sharp eyes, guns gripped tightly. Diamond City Radio still played the same songs, albeit with a more confident Travis at the helm. 

Once they crossed over into Cambridge, Antonio clicked the radio off, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention. He was in no way ready to shoot anything, and even the comforting weight of Deliverer felt awkward as he shuffled next to Deacon.They’d barely spoken, save for Antonio’s quiet  _ thanks  _ from when Deacon had guided him around challenging terrain. 

The white spire of Bunker Hill rose in the distance, a goal on the horizon. Kessler offered them a nod in greeting as they shuffled through the gates, picking their way through the swathes of caravaneers. Deacon’s hand on Antonio’s back guided him towards Savaldi’s, and he gratefully sank onto a bar stool, wiping away the sweat that had accumulated on his brow. Deacon took the stool next to him, and he leaned against the other man’s shoulder, groaning as his body ached. 

“What happened to him?” Antonio closed his eyes at Joe Savaldi’s question, letting his head rest heavily on Deacon’s shoulder. 

“This guy? Just one too many at the Third Rail; thought I oughta bring him to a more reputable establishment.” Antonio felt the vibrations as Deacon spoke, a quick half truth placating both Joe and any onlookers. 

“Guess he’s not lookin’ for any hair of the dog then.” Antonio could see Deacon’s apologetic smile even through closed eyes. He remembered how often he’d practiced it on the road, and knew Joe would accept it. 

“If you’ve got any water that won’t make the geiger counter have a field day, that would be much appreciated.” Deacon shifted in his stool, a tentative arm reaching around to steady Antonio. 

He opened his eyes when he heard the cans slide onto the counter space in front of them, the metal cool against his hands as he reached for it, sitting up to take a cautious sip. Deacon was watching him out of the corner of his eye, looking tired. 

“What’s the plan, Deacon?” The croak had almost left his voice entirely, but it was still noticeable. Deacon pushed his sunglasses up and took a sip of his own can. 

“First objective is getting you back in one piece, or at least the same amount of pieces as you’re in now. It takes a healthy Whisper around eight hours of straight walking to make it from Goodneighbor to Sanctuary, but unfortunately we don’t have one of those handy.” Antonio frowned as he swallowed another gulp, shivering as he felt it slide down his throat. “Considering it took just over an hour to get here, I’m going to guesstimate travel time to be around ten hours, give or take.” Deacon went on, drawing invisible numbers on the countertop. “How long do you think you can keep going for?” Antonio closed his eyes again, and frowned. 

“If you give me a chance to rest, maybe another hour, two if we absolutely have to.” There was no point in acting tough, getting caught like this would be a death sentence. Deacon nodded, fingers crossing out what he had written. 

“Do you think we could make it to Covenant? It’s two hours on a good day, but if we can get there before sundown we’ll be set.” 

Antonio turned to look at Deacon, forehead creasing. Despite taking the ghost town for the Minutemen, they usually avoided it since memories of empty smiles and blood stains were still fresh. However, the soft mattresses and reprogrammed turrets offered a sense of security that was hard to find outside of Diamond City or Sanctuary. They could try their luck by crossing over to Oberland Station, but if one of them were to be wounded, they were more likely to find help in Covenant. 

“Sounds good, just let me catch my breath and we can head out, unless you fancy carrying me across the Commonwealth.” 

\- 

They moved painfully slowly, ducking and weaving through the safest routes possible, Antonio hobbling along, latched onto Deacon’s arm for support. When they finally broke free of the sprawling metropolis it was a relief, open air and a clear sky soothing Antonio’s spinning head.

He slumped down on a tree stump, sticky with sweat, chest heaving as he gasped for air. Deacon was leaning against a tree a few metres away, eyes scanning the horizon. The silence stretched on. It wasn’t so bad when they were moving, in fact, tactically speaking, it was better to be as quiet as possible. But now, as they rested in the shade of a cluster of trees, August sun casting dappled light upon the scene, it felt awkward. So, with a shaky hand, Antonio clicked the radio on. 

Deacon jumped, hand flying to his rifle, body tensing as he turned to face the threat. Antonio smiled sheepishly, holding up his wrist. He relaxed, turning his back again to resume his watch. 

After travelling with the man for the better part of eight months, Antonio knew Deacon was only ever silent during one of three times. The first was the most important: to avoid being detected. It was an unearthly quiet, and with the help of a Stealth Boy, he would simply cease to exist. 

The second was something Antonio had never understood, but accepted nonetheless: during sex. That was a different type of quiet. He always started with a bluff, trying to circumvent the innate intimacy of the moment, but the moment Antonio touched him, held him,  _ looked  _ at him; the bravado would disappear, and he would dissolve into breathy moans and pants, punctuated by the most gentle of pleas. 

The third was rare. He’d only seen it once before. After he’d returned from the Glowing Sea, Deacon had initially ignored him. It had been unnerving, the eyes behind the sunglasses watching his every move, but never engaging. It hadn’t been until he’d gotten the spy alone in the shooting range that he found out what was happening. Deacon was angry. Antonio had left, and taken longer than he said he would. He’d tried to joke, brush it off, especially considering how often Deacon left with no warning. But it hadn’t worked. Even after he’d sunk to his knees and allowed Deacon to take what he needed, it had been a day before things went back to normal. 

So, Deacon was mad. Probably at him.  _ Definitely _ at him. Which was more than fair. He cleared his throat, unsurprised when Deacon didn’t turn around. 

“Listen, I just wanted to say I’m sorry about what I said back in Goodneighbor. It wasn’t fair of me.” Deacon didn’t give any indication he’d heard. Since he had no plans of letting Deacon fuck his mouth until he felt better this time, he pressed on. “A lot of shit happened in the Institute-” Deacon flinched. “-and it fucked me up. In a lot of ways. I don’t- I can’t talk about it now. I shouldn’t have gone down to Quincy, I shouldn’t have let Hancock give me the Med-X, and I sure as hell shouldn’t have made you feel like you had to pick up the pieces.” Deacon had turned to look at him over his shoulder. “You said you’re in my corner, but I’m in yours too, Deek. Fuck, this is stupid but you’re my best friend out in this messed up world.” He looked down at his PipBoy, still playing the radio softly. “I love what we have, and I don’t want some stupid argument to ruin that.” Deacon stepped away from his place against the trunk, and moved to rifle through his pack, picking out a can of water. 

“I think you’re delirious, boss.” He went to toss the can, but obviously thought better of it and walked over to hand it to Antonio. He accepted it, popping the tab and taking a long drink. 

“Probably. But I meant what I said.” 

“What about Garvey?”

“I think I have something good with him. He’s a good man, makes me want to be better.”

“You deserve that, boss.” Antonio took another swig from the can, wiping away a droplet that dribbled down his chin. “Anywho, we better get going, Covenant’s not getting any closer.” 

The moment was gone, and if Antonio hadn’t been there himself, he couldn’t have been sure it had happened. It was another of those memories of Deacon he held, rare moments of honesty and vulnerability, cradling them carefully so they wouldn’t break. 

**Author's Note:**

> aaa sorry for leaving this so long! i really struggled with it and then life got crazy! there's probably a buncha mistakes but hey if you read this thank you :) 
> 
> tumblr: @homebrandailis 
> 
> also ive been really into new vegas so its hard to get back in the fallout 4 headspace lmao but please come talk to me on tumblr !! tell me about your ocs! ask me about mine!


End file.
